


Hands of the Willow

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crimson Flower Route, Gift Giving, Love Letters, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mention of Character Death, Mutual Pining, Omega Linhardt, Omega Sylvain, Omega Verse, it’s about the Yearning, this is soft but also painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: To my Evening Primrose,I’ve waited too long to send you this letter, I know. Hopefully, it doesn’t end up collecting dust on your desk, crammed in between what I’m sure is a full year of painstaking crest research, and little rings of Angelica tea stains from half-drunk cups you tipped over when you fell asleep chasing a theory. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Maybe you’ll never read past the first sentence and so whatever I end up writing won’t matter. Heh. Maybe that’s just me projecting whatever situation gives me the courage I need to keep going.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728082
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22
Collections: Omega Sylvain Week





	Hands of the Willow

**Author's Note:**

> Omega Sylvain week day 7 - prompt: timing

Lone Moon, 24th, 1182

To my Evening Primrose, 

I’ve waited too long to send you this letter, I know. Hopefully, it doesn’t end up collecting dust on your desk, crammed in between what I’m sure is a full year of painstaking crest research, and little rings of Angelica tea stains from half-drunk cups you tipped over when you fell asleep chasing a theory. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Maybe you’ll never read past the first sentence and so whatever I end up writing won’t matter. Heh. Maybe that’s just me projecting whatever situation gives me the courage I need to keep going.

Okay, let's go with the assumption that you didn’t immediately toss this into the nearest fire. Right now, I’m imagining you slicing through the seal with one of those small, resigned sighs and your eyes already droopy in that cute little way that I love. Your hair’s probably gotten longer since the last time I saw you, so you’d have to brush some of the loose strands behind your ears before you settled in to read it. I wish I could have delivered this in person, if only to see that. 

I wish I could do more than just think about it, every damn day.

I meant to write to you earlier, cross my heart. I meant to, but every time I sat down my mind went blank and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. There’s so much I have to tell you, but all of the words I come up with I can only see myself saying to your face. I lost track of how many ends of quills and pieces of parchment I ruined just by trying to write your name. 

I can still say it out loud, though. Well, I whisper it at night, when I’m certain only the Goddess is left to listen— except I know that she doesn’t or maybe it’s just that she won’t answer anymore, but that’s besides the point. It’s cold enough here that I can see the way your name comes to life in the fog of my breath and how much different it is from all of the rest. At the end of the day, when I’m finally curled up in my bedroll, still in the same armor—clutching my lance and trying not to count the number of lives I added to it—it’s easy to convince myself that I only feel unsafe because it isn’t you I’m holding in my arms.

Do you want to know what I think of? Mostly, it’s you, but I’m sure you already guessed that. You always were one move ahead of the rest. Every little thing about you feels perfect right now, and it’s all I want to write about. It’s you. It’s _you:_ the way you’d casually rub your scent onto my wrist right before you raised your hand to your mouth to cover a yawn, the little point of your nose that followed the sun when you’d take your morning nap—head tipped against my shoulder—but especially the primrose flowers you let me tuck into your ponytail under the light of the moon, sitting in your favorite corner of the greenhouse. I will never forget how beautiful you looked with the pale yellow shining more like golden silk and the stars twinkling with secrets I _needed_ to know— and all I did know was that I just had to kiss you. I thought I knew how lucky I was to have you then, but looking back, I truly didn’t, because if I did, I never would have stopped. Not then—when the moon shed her skin just so she could show me your brilliance—and not later, when a river of red separated us and I wasn’t brave enough to jump in and save you, even if it meant that I wouldn’t last a second longer without wishing I was dead. 

Nothing new, I know. Just a lot of florid words without any legitimate intention. The famous Sylvain Jose Gautier set out to woo Omega women and men alike with his charming looks and his terrible poetry. Never mind that he’s an Omega himself. Never mind that the scar on his neck has almost completely faded and he’s worried that he, or his mate, will be forced to find someone else to bond.

I suppose after all that it’s unnecessary to tell you that I miss you, but I do. Every second of every damn day, and the days here are much longer than they were at the Monastery—for reasons I’m sure you’re already aware of. 

_Whew_. That's a lot for a first letter. I’m sorry, I let my hands get ahead of me again. I haven’t even asked about how you’ve been, though I promise I really, really want to know. Well, if you don’t respond, I understand. If you’ve read this far I think I feel confident enough to tell you that I love you; I love you and really it’s just those three words that are all I ever wanted to say to you in person— that were all I could think about when I stared at the empty page. I’m sorry I didn’t take the chance to say them as soon as I learned them, but I’m saying them now, and the meaning still is and will always and forever be the same. 

Emphatically yours, 

Sylvain.

P.S. I hope the messenger I sent this with still has the gift that goes with it. Even if you do end up destroying the letter, I hope you’ll keep that safe.

* * *

Harpstring Moon - day 11 - 1182

Dear Sylvain,

I received both. The letter and the message, though one of them was in rather poor condition. It’s thriving under my care now. Perhaps next time you’d be better off choosing someone who wasn’t a random merchant traveling to Remire Village from somewhere in the Alliance. 

Using an alias and sending the corresponding item in question as an attempt to protect my identity was a touching gesture, I will admit. It’s very clever. If only you hadn’t shouted the same name across the courtyard and all throughout the halls— it would have proved to be an ingenious plan. 

I’ll also admit I was pleased to hear from you. Yes, I’ve been busy with my research, and you are correct, Angelica tea really is the worst kind of stain to get out. It takes too much tension from the wrist. Not only did I read past the first sentence, I read past the first sentence over and over again. Eventually, I memorized the entire thing. It wasn’t difficult; I’m used to memorizing lists of formulas for reason based magic on top of the complex principles regarding crestology. 

That is what it was— wasn’t it? A list of different ways to tell me that you love me? 

It’s a good list. I’ve been thinking of writing one of my own, now that I can say I understand it. It would start as something like this:

You have twenty-nine freckles on your face. Fourteen of them can be found by brushing my thumb over the bridge of your nose. The other fifteen are spread out, unevenly, until they reach the edges of your hairline, your jawbone, your chin. I have to chase them with the rest of my fingers, or my own freckle-free nose, or my mouth, when I felt like they were stars that escaped the sky and the Goddess had surely sent me to reclaim them. There are twenty-nine freckles on your face and likely many hundreds more, scattered like phosphorus in the DNA that created your body— your body that I can’t get comfortable enough without to take my naps. The rumbling of your laughter against my back cannot be replicated no matter how many times I fluff the pillows or agitate the cat. That is where I would start. 

As an aside, your poetry was superfluous, but will never be as horrible as Lorenz’s. I pity the noble that’s forced to endure such purpled prose. To be overzealous isn’t the absolute worst trait to have, I suppose, though it does sound exhausting, personally. 

The scar on my neck is almost completely faded so I’m not surprised to hear yours has as well. I didn’t bite hard enough, I’m afraid. I’ve never been one for aggression, and you know how I feel about blood. If I had Alpha canines, perhaps I could better stomach it.

I miss you more now that I will miss it. It’s terribly hard to concentrate on anything else but that fact. My hypothesis is that it’s the final mark you gave me, and though I shouldn't need a physical reminder that you still live, it will become harder to convince my mind that you truly live without me. The main evidence I have to support this is that my body aches no matter how many naps I attempt. I even tried taking a potion that forced me to sleep for a full twenty-four hours. Nothing helped.

There are other signs. I find myself increasingly fond of peach sorbet. I have it every day now, with my afternoon tea, even during the coldest moons. It was one of the more popular desserts at Garreg Mach, but you always seemed to know how to charm the cooks into giving you two servings, so I didn’t have to interrupt my reading. Thank you for those times you brought it all the way to the library before it completely melted, so we could enjoy it together. 

The primroses are in full bloom. Each morning, I have one of the maids slip them into my hair. You’re right about its length. It doesn’t stay in the ponytail very well anymore. I’ll have to find some other way to keep it out of my face. It won’t be as reliable as your hands, but until I see you whisper my name followed by those three words that continue to vex you in person, it will have to do.

P.S. I planted the tree as close as I could to my favorite fishing spot. It’s hardly sprouted, but it keeps me company in the hours of silence I spend waiting for nothing in particular. I think most about you then.

Writing this made me sleepy. Do me a favor and wake me once you get here.

Linhardt

* * *

Garland Moon, 9th, 1182 

My dearest Primrose,

That’s right. I’m keeping the nickname. Even if you do say it’s a not-so-secretive alias. There’s a reason I shouted it across the courtyard and through the halls. You already smelled of them long before I began to press their petals between your notes and tuck the stems behind your ear. 

It’s hard to keep them alive here, but I’ve managed a small crop. My heat came just after I got your letter. It was the first one without you and it hit during the week of my birthday. I probably don’t have to waste another piece of paper explaining how horrible that was. There are deep red scratches over the paling impression of your blunt teeth, but even with the skin raised it doesn’t make them any clearer. 

Every day I begged the Betas who came in to care for me to bring me fresh cuttings of my favorite little flower. It’s nothing like your actual presence—what I really need is your soft eyelashes tickling the base of my neck—but it’s something physical, like you said, to remind me that as long as you’re alive I’ll hold you in my arms again. 

I actually have two hundred and eighty-one freckles on my body. I had one of the physicians confirm it when they checked me over after the heat broke. 

Just kidding. But seriously, I’m looking forward to you counting them. Maybe I’ll pick up a few more to drag that process out a little longer. 

I know it’s probably boring you to tears, but I’m relieved to hear that you’ve remained in the Oghma Mountains. You’re safer there than you’d be with Edelgard, though you’d be safest anywhere as long as you had your big strong boyfriend Sylvain around to protect you. I’ve been stuck here at home when I’m not guarding the border for a little over a year now and it sucks. Things are even worse than I assumed it would be; I don’t think any of us truly expected a war to break out right as we should have been graduating. 

Speaking of politics (because I know it’s your favorite subject), It’s slowly going to hell here in Faerghus. House Gautier has never been very involved with things that don’t affect our ability to hold the border, but apparently many of the other nobles are starting to side with the Empire. My father doesn’t tell me much of what’s going on when we receive word, yet he expects me to tell him everything I know about Edelgard. Did I already mention how much it sucks to be here? It’s hard to capture the perfect sentence to describe how shitty this place is and how much it hurts to be without you. It probably doesn’t exist.

Honestly, I thought I had resigned myself pretty well to my duties as an heir, but now that the time is getting closer for me to pick up the Lance of Ruin again, all I can think about is running away.

All I can think about is running to you. I’d ride for weeks if that’s what it took to find you nodding off by that little willow sprout. I’m happy to hear it survived the journey and that you planted it next to something so important. I wonder what it will look like by the time I arrive to sweep you off your feet and carry you far away from both of our estates. Remember when I told you that I would, when we snuck away to the Goddess Tower on the night of the ball? I sure won’t ever forget. 

I still mean it. I’ll take you anywhere in the world you want to go. So, start thinking of places, if you already haven’t. Tell me in your next letter. Tell me how you wear your hair once you figure it out. Tell me how the willow tree grows. 

Dutifully yours, 

Sylvain

* * *

Ethereal Moon - day 14 - 1182

To my dainty Dogwood flower, 

If nicknames are how you insist on communicating, how about that one? I think it’s quite fitting. There is a row of red dogwood trees just outside the Monastery, and one could argue they are in bloom year round. 

In the Spring, their flowers come early and are accompanied by a strong, almost sickly-sweet smell. By the summertime, the scent is muted, but the strength and beauty in the interwoven branches still draw your attention. The shade it offers then is unexpectedly impressive. During the Fall, their leaves are red, and the contrast of the color is stunning against the handsome bark. It’s Winter now, and I watch for them every time I linger by the gates. The little clusters of berries on bare branches look all the more fascinating against the clumps of melting snow. They stand tall through the elements of all four seasons, and though much of Garreg Mach has fallen into disrepair, I can confirm they are still here. 

I am also here, regretfully. It was too long for your messenger to find me, and longer before he mustered the courage to deliver it by the charred front doors. I don’t blame him; I didn’t want to come myself, but it was too much of a pain to refuse. 

At least it’s not a permanent position. My father insisted I act more like his heir instead of locking myself away in my room, surrounded by piles of illegible notes and nonsensical books like a madman. His words, not mine, though I certainly won’t dispute he’s spot on with one of those points. I’ve kept it no secret that I want nothing to do with my inheritance, and it’s beyond frustrating to be forced to leave my research behind. Home was boring, sometimes, when I was interrupted to take regular meals with my family, but council meetings and domestic affairs are even worse. I can’t nap for more than a few minutes at a time without someone shaking me awake. It’s terribly rude, and I’m going to develop a bruise.

Politics are not much better here, though I’ve only learned as much as I need to keep myself alive and unbothered by Hubert. He and Edelgard are extremely busy doing Goddess knows what, so I’ve taken to revisiting the library. I’ve discovered some interesting volumes that I don’t remember existing when Seteth was managing it. I’ll have to search his office thoroughly later. 

The seats we used to sit in by the staircase are exactly as we left them. They were dusty, but otherwise untouched; yours was pulled back and out to the left of mine. I stayed up late reading about the history of Sreng following a theory I have about Gautier’s crest, but when I finally slumped over in exhaustion, your lap wasn’t there to catch me, so my head hit the arms of the chair instead. They’ve never been particularly comfortable, but the wood is even harder than it looks when your entire body bangs against it. Next time, I’ll bring another pillow along.

It’s been four days since then and it still hurts. Soon, my own heat will be here, and I had nothing to bring with me to remember you by. I gathered some of the Dogwood drupes in a little bowl that I keep by the window. They are inedible to humans, of course, but each one contains a seed. I’m sending three which are viable with this letter. At least one of them should survive long enough for you to plant it. They are known for their resilience, after all. 

They also symbolize rebirth and passion. I read somewhere that Alphas would often send sprigs of dogwood to Omegas to indicate their interest in courtship. Sorry if it seems a bit strange to receive now, seeing as you already admitted you loved me before I even thought of the proposal, but I suppose nothing of our relationship has been traditional. It’s a rather amusing symbolism for one Omega to send to another, considering our combined fertility is unlikely to produce any offspring. 

My hair has become even more of an annoyance. It would be too arduous of a process to explain how it looks, so I decided to cut the ponytail off entirely. It’s short now, and nondescript. I know how attached you were to it, so don’t fret, I sent it along with the berries in a separate package. Don’t open it until you’re alone. It’s embarrassing.

Now that you have something so personal of mine, don’t come running quite yet. It may be awhile between our letters considering we’re being forced to cooperate with our families wishes. I’ve been thinking—dreaming, more accurately—of places I’d like you to take me when the fighting is over. Derdriu would be lovely in the late summer months, and you would certainly pick up a few more of those freckles you so boldly taunted me about. Then again, Albinea might suit you better, since you are so used to the biting cold. I’ll be sleepier there, but I know you won’t mind giving me your lap to rest upon. I’ll let you tuck as many sprigs of berries as you want into my hair then. It should be long enough again to accommodate your tastes.

The next time I’m allowed to visit my favorite fishing spot, I’ll tell you how the willow has grown. In return, I ask that you give me an update on the dogwood, and promise to keep yourself safe during those perilous months spent fighting away from your home. I shiver to imagine how much colder it is so far north. Don’t fall asleep in the snow.

Linhardt 

* * *

  
  


Great Tree Moon, 18th, 1183

My Evening Star, 

Relations with Sreng are terrible. I’ve been camped away by the northeast border trying to settle disputes with far too many lives under my command and far too little time on my own. I’m sorry this letter is so late and too short, but there’s little I can tell you about that wouldn’t give you nightmares. Just know that thought of whisking you away to Derdriu or Albinea if I survive to the end of this harrowing year is keeping me sane. Both places sound like a dream. Heaven is anywhere that I am with you. 

Your hair is even more beautiful than I remembered. It’s locked in a chest hidden in my room, waiting for only my eyes to cherish it. Your letters are tucked away in a pouch that I keep in the lining of my bedroll. I read them twice in the morning and more than twice at night. I no longer fight like I want to die, so they can have someone who comes home to them. 

The dogwood was doing well when I left it. Two of them survived the journey, and the gardeners at Gautier are great at what they do, so I should have a lot more to talk about in my next letter.

Don’t let Hubert or Edelgard or anybody else in the Imperial Army bully you. If I hear about it again, I’m throwing caution to the wind and storming whatever gates stand in the way of our reunion. I’m serious.

Craving you always, 

Sylvain

  
  


* * *

Horsebow Moon - day 2 - 1183 

Oh, my steadfast Sylvain,

The gates here were just reinforced by the blacksmith and I’d rather your fingers remain unbroken. Use them instead to hold on to those letters and continue to keep me close. 

The leaves are turning scarlet again. I hope that you are home by now and that the dogwood has grown enough that you can see it yourself. It makes for a wonderful sight. The ones at the Monastery are taller this year. I can tell because my nose doesn’t brush against the same coarse burls when I reach up to check if the berries will be ripe in time for my winter heat. That’s another reason I hope you are home. Our cycles aren’t quite the same, but I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else than in your room, surrounded by plenty of pillows and soft comforters, clutching my hair in your hands— not a lance.

Autumn dogwood means that we’ve approached the halfway point between your birthday and mine. I’ve never cared much for celebrations, and I know that this particular one isn’t high on your list of priorities. Still, know that I remembered and lit a candle for you in my room. I asked for two servings of peach sorbet that night. 

I ate both of them, of course. I couldn’t let it go to waste.

I visited home during the Garland Moon, and by that I mean, I briefly returned to Hevring territory to check on the progress of the willow tree as I promised. I think you would be pleased. It’s grown several feet wide since your first letter, and when I stand beneath it the leaves tickle my forehead. They’re white, but the sun gleams silver off the undersides even as they offer shade. It’s very relaxing. So much so that I napped twice against the trunk on the first day I fished. I remained there for most of my visit, with a book, or a line, or simply my hands in my lap, listening to the wildlife and feeling like the flowers that dipped forward to cover me were your fingers in my hair. I didn’t get much else done, and that’s fine by me. As far as I am concerned the entire month belongs to you, as does my heart. 

As I was sitting there I realized: If I am to end up going years more without seeing you, I want to come up with some way to ensure that this chapter in history cannot repeat itself. The book I read about Sreng went into great detail about the importance of your family’s crest. Without it, you obviously wouldn’t be able to wield your relic. Your relic is more than just a weapon, however. More than any other house in Faerghus, your crest is the root of your status, and the Lance of Ruin is the only route to the legitimacy of your bloodline. A country has no use for a Margrave that cannot fight, but why does everyone continue to go on as if that is a bad thing?

In a crestless society, would we even have the urgency to create war? 

As much as I wish it was, I don’t think it’s quite that simple, but I do believe that’s the direction we should be heading in. As far as I’m concerned, a future that bears repeating the same mistakes over and over again isn’t worth the effort of creating. My worst mistake was not committing myself when and where it counted, and now I’m miserable, separated from the one person who isn’t a burden to be around. It’s pointless for me to fight against Edelgard now, so all I can do is place my trust in you while I prepare results for multiple ends. That way, when we do meet again, I will know I have the means to make it so we will never be dragged apart for such a dreadful reason.

Regardless of which side wins, the first thing I will do when the dust clears is return to this pond. I’ll wait for you here, day and night, to find me— wait for your hands to gently sweep the willow leaves free where they fell on the crown of my head.

Linhardt

* * *

Wyvern Moon, 20th, 1183

Darling Prinny, 

You want to get rid of my crest? You’re not alone in that; I must have wished for the same scenario a thousand times by now. It might seem shocking to be so immediately confident you’ll succeed, but I’m happy to say that I know you well enough that I wouldn’t be surprised. If anyone could figure out how to do it, it would be you. 

I am home and you’re right, both of the dogwood trees look glorious. I actually went on ahead of my men, because even with the suppressants, my heat came early. My father said he wouldn’t be sending me out as much, since they’ve gotten so irregular. I’m too nervous about the way he’s been looking at me to be relieved about it. 

I don’t know how much longer I can put this off. I’m of little use to my family now. They need me to provide them with a crest, one way or another. I’m useless if I can’t fight or fuck or lay down and die. I don’t want to do any of those things. Okay, maybe I do want to do one of them, but only with you. 

I held off on doing this, because I really wanted to believe that things would be better by now and that I could at least manage one visit, but I’m sending you something again. 

Let me know what you think about it. 

Forever your sweetheart, 

Sylvain 

* * *

Ethereal Moon, 26th, 1183 

Linhardt,

Okay, maybe I went too far. I know you don’t like it when people are clingy, but it’s been a few months and I need some kind of response. I’m admittedly freaking out, just a little bit, over here. 

Just a yes or a no would be great. 

Sylvain, trying-not-to-have-a-heart-attack, Jose [ last name redacted ]

* * *

Guardian Moon - day 11 - 1184

Dear Sylvain Jose Hevring,

Yes.

Most sincerely, 

Your soon to be husband

* * *

Lone Moon, 3rd, 1184 

To my future,

I cannot tell you how many times I traced those three letters with my finger. Three letters. Three words. Three months I spent wondering if I’d fucked up worse than I ever have before in my life. Those three seconds of my heart pounding in my throat as I ripped open your response are the happiest I’ve spent, barring every one that I’ve had by your side. 

I couldn’t wait to write back, but I also couldn’t bear to send you something this important without proofreading it a thousand times. That’s what took me so long, I swear. There’s the stain of ink all over my neck where I most recall your mouth. The scar you gave me is but a phantom throb. 

Linhardt von Hevring, your name is something I want written all over me. I want it on the bridge of my nose and the tips of my ears. I want it in the corners of my collarbones and the rung of every rib. I want it in its simplicity and in its elegance and how it shines—so radiant—you are, all at once, my sun and my moon and all of the light filling the sky. Connect your name to the constellations of my body, so I can see what you see in me and learn to love it like you do. 

I want your everything. I want to be your everything. I want my breath to continue to exist if only to warm your skin. I’m greedy for you—so fucking greedy—I don’t know what to do with myself right now. I don’t know how to handle being so far from you when you promised, you _promised_ to be mine. 

I have a thing about promises, you see. I’ll crawl to the center of the earth if that’s what I have to do to keep them. I don’t make them lightly. I won’t take this one any other way. 

_Goddess_ , you drive me crazy. If ever I was to understand how an Alpha felt about their mate, it would be now. I’m dangerously close to jumping out of this window and onto a horse and taking you from everyone who’d dare even think of touching what my hands were created for. 

I’m even jealous of the maids, doing my job, weaving the flowers into your hair. 

Is it long enough now, Linhardt? Long enough for me to whisk us away to Albinea? Tell me, my darling, my angel of insomnia, my little lion heart. There’s too many berries gone rotten already waiting for Fodlan to end its dramatic third act. I’m impatient for the curtain call. I don’t want to spend another year wasting away. I don’t want to spend another heat without you. I don’t want anyone else to offer you their hand. 

So many have already come to my doorstep. We can’t ignore them forever. Come live with me, and be my love. 

I have nothing else to prove. My pleasure lies with you. 

Your Passionate Omega, 

Sylvain 

* * *

Ethereal Moon- day 25, 1185

I’m sorry, Sylvain,

The Professor returned. It still sounds impossible, even to me. Edelgard is frighteningly confident and everyone else is elated. I tried to be more enthusiastic, for Bernadetta’s sake, but all I could think of when I saw the sword of the creator at Byleth’s hip was that her appearance was an extension of hell. The war continues, and life continues to drift by unpleasantly without you. 

I’ve made little progress in my research, and now I feel that perhaps the timing wasn’t right. There’s no way I will be able to prepare for even one end when it’s coming this quickly. Sometimes, we realize things too late. When was it that my life began to become an amalgamation of “sometimes”? I have too many questions to answer; I am so very tired.

After the war, will we still still have the option of freedom? The two of us—disinherited omegas—turning our backs upon the world? Should I trust Edelgard after all these years of watching the bloodshed under her banner, draining into her own streets? Is there any leader who could claim differently? Any chance in the universe that in an alternate reality we would at least be in the same army— dying together? Living together?

Do me a favor and pull back as we advance. Keep me at a million arm’s length if you must, as long as it keeps you safe. You’ve promised me before that you no longer fight like you want to die, so it’s only fair for me to promise you now, I’m fighting to live. 

Love is such a terrifying concept,

Linhardt 

* * *

Guardian Moon, 15th, 1185

Dear Primrose,

I heard the news before I got your letter. Any bit of information spreads like wildfire here in Faerghus (not that we need more of it). 

Hey, don’t worry so much about your research, okay? You wouldn’t be my Linhardt if you weren’t slacking off and you can’t do that while you’re so stressed out. Brew the Angelica tea twice, it’s stronger that way. It will help to settle your stomach. 

I’m not fighting like I want to die and I’m not going to die. I’ve got people here who would kick my ass if I did. Ingrid’s already pulled on my ear too many times for things outside of my control. She’s the one who told me, actually, about Leonie. House Daphnel used to be a part of House Galatea. Judith was a respectable Knight, so she’ll always be remembered in Faerghus— for as long as there’s a Faerghus left. 

If it helps at all, I’m scared as hell. You aren’t alone.

Now that the bridge is captured I’ll bet Derdriu is next. I guess you’ll be going there ahead of me. I wanted to make your first experience at the water capital something unforgettable. Now, it’s something that I hope you’ll be able to forget. 

You’ll have to meet me halfway on that “million arm’s length” and stay at the back. Hyperbole or not, this isn’t where you’re meant to be. Hands like yours weren’t created to kill. Hands like mine, these hands are, but still, you accepted them. You’d let them roam your body wherever I wanted if I asked you— you’d let them defile you. 

Your hands, Linhardt, are like that of the willow. Delicate and restorative. Enchanting. I know because I held them in mine and the weight of my contempt was lifted. You withstood the rains of my sorrow and drained the sickness in my heart. You really could transform anything you touch. 

If you get the chance to see it again, let me know, will you? Stand underneath the canopy of catkins again and tell me how it’s grown. 

Sincerely, 

Dogwood 

* * *

Pegasus Moon- day 28 - 1185

Flayn is dead. I saw the final blow from the comfort of the smoking bushes, bruising the pads of my fingers on the Caduceus Staff. Through the crimson flames that smothered the stars, her eyes became empty, followed by the most deplorable cry. 

It’s not her scream that will haunt me, it’s Seteth’s. 

For all that you praised my hands I couldn’t save her. I should have prepared a physic. I don’t know why I didn’t. All I could do was watch as Seteth threw himself away after her, like he never planned to leave in the first place. I haven’t even wiped the sweat and soot away from my robes, but this letter couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wash myself before I told you what I saw, and what I know it means. Our time for running has run out. 

The Alliance has disbanded. Faerghus is next, and there’s nothing left to conquer besides the King and his most trusted subjects. 

You are among those. I know that you will be there, waiting for me in the final round. 

Has it truly come to this? If so, how much longer does this have to drag on? My hands shake. _My hands shake,_ and the blood in my body boils; it sickens me to extend energy just by existing in this world. 

I think you mentioned something like that, in your first letter— how your hands betrayed the words you wished you could write. Your coping method then was your imagination. So, I came up with some scenarios. 

In another world, we are storming the gates of Enbarr together. Byleth holds Edelgard’s head like there is nothing she will ever treasure more and nobody cheers. It isn’t over. There’s another evil, another candle to snuff out, but you are there with me and that is the one thing I never have to fear. 

In another world, you are dancing barefoot with Claude, except we aren’t in Fodlan, and they call him Khalid. There’s still booze moistening your upper lip, but I don’t mind the taste when you pull me in to celebrate. Your sickly-sweet smell benefits from the bitterness. I tell you this and you laugh, and then, you kiss me again. 

In another world I’ve discovered how to remove our crests. We’ve renounced our titles and live in a cozy cottage by the river. You hunt with a bow even if your aim is awful, and when I catch your shadow leading the sunset, I tuck the evening primrose into the braid of our firstborn son. 

In all of these worlds, even though I am not with you in the years before this war reaches its limit, we find each other again. 

Yet, in this world, specifically, this is likely to be our first and final reunion. I’ll wear the ring you gave me to my wedding or my funeral, whichever fate the Goddess deems us worthy of.

One way or another, I’ll finally get to sleep in your arms. 

P.S. The willow tree is massive. Even you wouldn’t be able to reach up to catch a single silver leaf in the palm of your hand.

Your fading flower, 

Linhardt 

* * *

Great Tree Moon, 13th, 1186

My Sensational Sundrop,

By the time this letter arrives it will be too late to send a response. Make that up to me with one more promise, then. 

Don’t let guilt convince you that you’re less of a person for feeling it. 

I’m the last one who should be preaching this but, sweetheart, I’ve been there. Felix and Ingrid were at Arianrhod. I didn’t get to see them before they left, and I didn’t see them coming back. 

I’m going to see you again, though. _I’m going to see you again._ Once I do, there’s nothing that could convince me to let you go. Leave the ring behind. We’ll go back to collect it together. This isn’t a wedding or a funeral— not yet. It’s our final fight, sure, but it’s also the start of another future. It’s the beginning of a new year. 

The dawn is breaking through the window as I write this. It rises regardless of the events of the night that comes before it. It’s the same sunrise, no matter how different our days are. You’re probably sleeping, unless you stayed up all night as I did, but for chivalry’s sake let’s assume you’ll need me to describe it to you.

It’s hardly a line, but purple came first, creeping over the horizon. It was a cloudy night, so pretty soon it ended up looking like a miasma. Just when I started to feel like it was getting too depressing, pink softened the edges, and right now orange is radiating where the blue hasn’t already leaked through. 

I haven’t been able to face my father after I refused his latest proposal. I haven’t been able to see the dogwood trees in full bloom over the years since you gave it to me. I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that. I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make you one more promise, as a temporary farewell. 

As soon as you’ve crossed the Tailtean Plains and stepped up to the gates of Fhirdiad, I’ll pull you onto my horse and we’ll ride straight south— far beyond Charon and into the Oghma mountains. However many days and nights it takes, I’ll bring you back to your favorite fishing spot. I’ll sit with you this time, under the willow, brushing the ivory pollen from your evergreen hair with my dogwood hands. 

For this day and forever more,

Sylvain Jose Hevring

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


End file.
